


what kind of asshole drives a lotus?

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27296794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You want us to fake a relationship for PR?”“Precisely.”You and Karkat exchange a glance.“Nah,” you say, at the same time Karkat says, “Fuckno.”
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 24
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is Dave Strider and you’re in a meeting with Karkat Vantas. Karkat is a hella famous writer, and you’re a musician. You’ve got no reason to be having meetings, as far as you know. But here you both are, sitting across from each other in tense silence, hungover and irritated, waiting quietly for your manager to come in and explain why exactly he called this meeting in the first place.

The thing is, you kinda hate Karkat.

Well, hate may be a bit of a strong word, but the two of you have clashed from the word go, to say the least. Karkat’s an attractive dude, there's no denying it, but you still managed to take an almost immediate disliking to him. Largely due to the fact that Karkat's reaction to meeting you had been a refusal to shake hands and a glare so heated you’d almost shat yourself, after which he'd fucked off to the bar and only bothered to return to your table an hour later. Then he'd spent the rest of the evening in a sort of seething silence, hardly deigning to say a word to anyone that wasn’t a creative insult. You’d walked away from that encounter with the impression that Karkat was a grade-A douchebag, and nothing he has said or done in the few times you’ve seen each other since then has proven that impression wrong.

You remember a particularly drunken night where the two of you had wound up in something of a shouting match. It had ended with Karkat calling you an ‘abhorrent column of smarmy filth’ and storming out in a dramatic huff. This is, perhaps, your nicest memory of him— and it isn't really fucking nice at all.

This morning Karkat looks about as good as you feel, which is to say that he looks like he hasn't had any sleep in decades and that he'd rather be dead than sitting in a conference room right now. You infer all this from the bags under his eyes, more prominent than usual, and the way he's glaring daggers at his complimentary water bottle.

You can sympathize, sorta. You know Karkat must be pretty hungover— you were both at Terezi’s birthday party the previous night, where the booze flowed freely. For you, most of the night is a blur, and you’d be shocked if Karkat wasn’t in the same state. It seemed like every time you caught sight of the dude he was knocking back a shot.

You’ve both sat in silence up to this point, with not even a greeting when you walked through the door. But you can only handle silence for so long, so eventually you break it with, “You look like shit, man.”

Karkat shifts his glare to you. “I still look a damn sight better than _you_ , Strider.” The name is practically a snarl, what with the way Karkat's voice is still sleep-rough.

Before you can come up with anything suitably witty to say in return, your manager— a guy named Zahhak— slides in the door, takes in your disheveled, unhappy appearances, and awkwardly clears his throat. “Er, good morning, gentlemen. Mr. Vantas. Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice.”

Karkat nods. That's it, he just nods, scowl still firmly in place. His lack of proper greeting throws Zahhak for even more of a loop. He clears his throat again.

“I’m not sure what your publisher told you about this meeting, Mr. Vantas, but we're mostly here to discuss these,” he says, placing a small stack of papers onto the table and sliding it across to you.

The stack of papers turns out to be a collection of photos. Paparazzi shots by the looks of them. They were all taken last night and feature you and Karkat. Most of them are harmless. In one, it simply looks like the two of you are having a friendly discussion (you were actually commenting on the stupidity of Karkat's ridiculously oversized turtleneck, if you remember correctly) and in another you’re in the midst of your toast to Terezi, while Karkat looks on from beside you, smiling slightly.

But others are a bit more... compromising, and it's these you assume Zahhak is concerned about. In one, for example, the two of you are sitting next to each other at the bar- too close, really. You’ve got your heads bent together and, since the picture is taken from behind, your expressions are hidden from the camera. But if someone could see your expressions, you know, then they’d see that you were clearly in the midst of an argument. As it is, you just look like you’ve cozied up to each other.

The worst is the one taken just after the party, when you’d been stumbling to your respective rides. You were so drunk at that point in the evening you’re surprised any memories survived, but you remember Karkat staggering into you. Of course you had snapped at him to watch where he was going but you’d also caught him, held him up even, and from the angle the picture is taken it almost looks like you’re hugging.

“These are already all over the net,” Zahhak informs you. “In fact, you're trending worldwide on twitter.”

You pull out your phone and open twitter, just to check. It turns out there are two tags about you trending. The first is simply _#davekat_ while the second is _#davekatgetmarried_. You click the first one, just out of curiosity, and are greeted with even more photos, and plenty of speculation about whether or not you might be a real couple. There are a few old pictures of you too, dating all the way back to the first time you met nearly two years ago. These follow pretty much the same pattern- the ones where you look least hostile to each other are the ones that get all the attention while the others (the one where Karkat is double flipping you off, for example, or the one where you’re yelling at each other in a bar— the list goes on) get ignored.

“Well,” you say. “I still dunno why I should care.”

“It’s not like we were kissing,” Karkat says.

Zahhak gestures towards your phone, still open in your hand. “Tell me, does most of that feedback look positive to you?”

“Uh... yeah?”

“Right. These pictures— which, as you may have noticed, are quite innocent— are generating a huge positive buzz about you two online. I've even had calls from gossip rags asking for a statement. And we thought, if all this comes from a few measly pictures of the two of you together…”

“What're you getting at?” you ask, afraid you already have an inkling.

Karkat scoffs. “Isn't it fucking obvious? They want us seen out together more. Right?”

“Actually we were thinking of taking it a step further,” Zahhak says, speaking slowly, cautiously, like he's afraid of spooking you. “A few pap shots of the two of you looking chummy are all well and good, but if you were an actual couple…”

“But we’re not an actual couple,” you point out.

“No, I know. But if you _pretended_ , just for a while—”

“You want us to fake a relationship for PR?”

“Precisely.”

You and Karkat exchange a glance.

“Nah,” you say, at the same time Karkat says, “ _Fuck_ no.”

“Look, just hear me out,” Zahhak pleads, hands raised to placate you. “Mr. Vantas, you've got a novel due to come out in a few months. The publicity couldn't hurt— your publisher thought it was a great idea when I pitched it to her. And Dave, your second album will be released soon. You're already successful but the press from this could make you a household name. And it will allow you to come out, as you've been wanting to do for a while now. In fact, it's the only way we'd allow you to come out right now. If you're seen as being in a long-term, monogamous relationship with an already out and well-respected individual, it's far more likely to go smoothly for you.

Besides, it would only be temporary. After the press dies down from the initial coming out, after the two of you are done being the 'hot new couple', we would stage a breakup. High profile breakups garner plenty of press. Then, if you'd prefer, the two of you never have to see each other again.”

You and Karkat exchange another glance. This one is hesitant, considering.

You don’t like Karkat, but you could probably fake it, at least for a while, if it meant finally getting to come out. If it meant an end to all the lying and hiding. Granted, it would mean trading one lie for another... but who would this lie really hurt? Not the fans, they'd never know it was a fake relationship. No one would ever have to know. And afterward, you’d be free to date whoever the hell you wanted, guy or girl.

“If,” Karkat begins, choosing his words carefully. “If, _hypothetically_ , we agreed to this... What exactly would we have to do?”

It's not another no, you note.

“We'd present you to the press as an already well-established relationship,” Zahhak says. “Perhaps going as far back as the first time you met, so you'd have to appear as one. Meaning you would need to seem comfortable around each other, comfortable with affection. And you'd need to be seen living together. Karkat, we'd ask you to move into Dave’s apartment temporarily to make this easier. We'd schedule interviews, photo shoots, public outings, that sort of thing. But we wouldn't pack your schedule too much, of course. We're aware that you would need plenty of time to work on your novel.”

“...Right.”

Karkat stares at his hands. You stare at Karkat.

You’d be living together. What if Karkat’s a complete douche who's up all hours? What if he's a neat freak? What if he's a slob? Could you really fucking handle being around him twenty-four seven without killing him? That's the real question.

“Well,” Karkat starts, “I guess, if Strider wants to—”

“I do,” your mouth says before your brain has really had a chance to decide anything. Your mouth has a bad habit of doing that, actually. “Like, I mean. I think it could be good, y’know. Good press.”

“Right, good press,” Karkat parrots, sounding distant. “It's just, uh. I've never- I don't like being in front of the camera, like. I've never done a live interview... Well, one, but it was a fucking disaster, so.”

“We could train you up,” Zahhak assures. “And Dave will be doing most of the talking at any rate.”

Karkat fidgets. Zahhak adds, “You don't have to decide anything now. The two of you can go home, sleep on it, and I'll contact you tomorrow. How's that sound?”

“Yeah. Great,” Karkat mumbles.

You end the meeting with an awkward glance and a mutual refusal to utter the word goodbye. You can't believe Karkat would consider this— you can't believe _you’re_ considering it. And yet.

Maybe the pros might outweigh the cons in this case.

* * *

It's four in the morning and you’re on the cusp of sleep when your phone buzzes. It's bright in the pitch black of your bedroom, and it takes a second for your eyes to adjust as you squint at the screen.

Turns out it's a text from an unknown number. You have a feeling you know exactly who it is.

**YOU REALLY THINK WE COULD PULL THIS OFF?**

Karkat has never texted you before. Hell, you’re not even sure how Karkat got your number. Terezi, maybe? It doesn't really matter. It's freaky, receiving a text in all-caps from Karkat fucking Vantas at four in the morning, and it strikes you that, if you go through with this, you’ll probably be texting a whole lot more. Talking, too. And you’ll have to be civil to each other at least some of the time. It’s a weird concept, you think.

_do you_

Karkat's reply is slow in coming. You can picture him sitting in bed, thinking entirely too hard about how to respond. Unless he's just fallen asleep. That's always a possibility.

**I DON’T KNOW. YOU CALLED ME A TALENTLESS WINDBAG ONCE.**

You remember that night. What you don’t remember is what exactly Karkat did to incite the insult, but you’re sure it was something. Besides, Karkat got his revenge by pouring soda in your lap. Truth be told, you’ve never read Karkat's first book, despite being told repeatedly by critics and friends alike that it was really good and definitely worth a read, so you have no firsthand knowledge of Karkat's level of talent— or lack thereof. Still, Karkat doesn't need to know that. A second message follows the first.

**CAN YOU MAKE CONVINCING MOONY EYES AT A TALENTLESS WINDBAG?**

_i could make convincing moony eyes at a fucking tree stump dude_

_not my acting skills we gotta worry about_

Another long pause between texts. Then:

**DIDN’T EXPECT YOU TO BE UP.**

**I CAN’T SLEEP.**

_why not_

**BAD DREAMS.**

When not face to face with him it's easy to forget it's Karkat on the other end of these texts. You very nearly express sympathy— after all, you’ve been haunted by nightmares before. Nightmares that kept you up for fear of repeating them. But then Karkat spoils it with his next message, which serves as a stark reminder of exactly who you’re dealing with— an asshole.

**NOT THAT YOU’D CARE, HUH?**

You don’t bother replying. You roll your eyes and toss your phone onto the nightstand. Karkat clearly doesn't think very highly of you. The feeling, it just so happens, is entirely mutual.

* * *

You’re in the midst of writing when your phone rings. It's not anything important, nothing that you’ll ever show anyone. Still, it's somewhat of a bother to be interrupted.

“What?” your greeting of choice, irritation leaking into your voice.

“You know, I never thought I'd be someone's fake boyfriend.”

You make a face, pulling the phone away from your ear to take a peek at the caller ID and— yup, it's the same unknown number that had been texting you last night. Definitely Karkat, then.

You sigh. “Guess that means you’re in?”

“More or less. Wasn’t given much of a choice, if I'm being honest.”

You lean back on the couch and kick your feet up on the coffee table. “Well, you could do hella worse than me as far as fake boyfriends go.”

“Do worse than a smug shitstain hiding behind overpriced shades and a poker face? Hm, doubtful.”

You frown. “Y’know, most people find the shades thing hot.”

“It’s stupid,” is all Karkat says. Then he abruptly switches the subject. “Do you have any, like, good tea there? Only I'm not sure if I should bring my own. And soap. Right. Going by your smell you buy the cheap shit that breaks me out.”

Your frown only deepens. “The fuck are you on about?”

“I’m packing, idiot. Nearly done, now.”

“Shit, already? I haven't even talked to Zahhak yet, he was supposed to call me—”

“He said he did and you didn't pick up. But I figured, you seemed so over the moon yesterday—”

“ _Over the moon_? In your dreams, Vantas.”

“— so I thought I'd go on the assumption that you'd agree as well. Am I wrong?”

“No,” you admit with a huff. “But I'm not fucking over the moon. If anything, I'm dreading it.”

“Right. Well Zahhak wants me over there tonight. Says we're to hash out a believable story and 'get comfortable with each other' before our big outing.”

“So soon?” you ask, glancing nervously around your apartment. It could stand to be cleaned up.

“Yeah,” Karkat says. “Why put it off, right? The sooner we get started the sooner it'll all be over.”

Well, if he’s gonna be so nonchalant about the whole thing then you intend to affect that attitude as well. You try to sound as if you don’t really care in the slightest when you say, “So I'll see you tonight, then.”

“You will,” Karkat says. Then, “Don’t sound so excited.”

He hangs up before you can come up with a suitably sarcastic reply.

You set your phone down and take another look around the apartment. You don’t really care what Karkat thinks (you don’t), but you’d feel guilty as hell having a guest over and leaving your shit like this. You should at least clean up a little.

* * *

By the time Karkat turns up that night your place is spotless. You spent hours on it. Not because of Karkat. It's just that once you started- why stop, right? Cleaning was cathartic in a way. It kept you from worrying too much about this PR scheme you’d agreed to and it made the time go by. Now that you’re finished you’re sort of proud.

You couldn't do anything about the sparse furnishings and lack of decoration, though. When you let Karkat in you still find yourself watching his face, looking for any signs of negative judgment. Bag on his shoulder, Karkat surveys the apartment with his patented bitchface.

You’ll admit that the place isn't much to look at. It's probably not what one would expect from a musician like you. It's spacious, sure, but plain. It's just that you’ve been on tour so much since you moved that you haven’t had any time or inclination to personalize it. Now you sort of wished you had. Still, you refuse to make excuses for Karkat. You don’t care what he thinks.

“Guest room's this way,” you tell him, directing him down the hall.

“Oh, good. So I won't be sleeping on the couch, then.”

You ignore that comment, mostly because you can't tell if Karkat is being snarky or if that was a genuine concern of his. “It’s the one at the end on the right. Bathroom's across the hall. We're sharing that so don't be an ass and hog the shower.”

“No promises.”

You roll your eyes, futile behind the protection of your shades. “You gonna be a prick the whole time? Just askin’ so I know what to expect.”

Karkat frowns at you over his shoulder. “I’ll stop when you stop.”

You don’t take the bait. You can't start arguing the very first night. That wouldn't bode well for the rest of your fake relationship. Instead, you watch in silence as Karkat sets his bag on the bed and takes in his temporary room. Like the rest of the apartment, it's plain and sparsely furnished, but the floor-to-ceiling windows provide a nice view of the city when you pull back the curtains and there's a desk against the wall that you assume Karkat will appreciate being able to write at.

“Needs some color on the walls,” is all Karkat says.

Well, you can't contest that point. They're still the same boring eggshell white they were when you moved in. You shrug. “I ordered take out,” you say, changing the subject. “It’s in the kitchen.”

Karkat is famished, it turns out. He practically inhales his food and at your curious look he shifts uncomfortably in his chair and grumbles, “I, uh. Guess I forgot to eat today,” which raises a whole new set of worries about living with him. Are you gonna come home one day and find him dead at his computer, having forgotten to eat for several days in a row? Does he forget to bathe? You’re friends with enough writer-types and artists (and are, in fact, one yourself) that you understand getting so absorbed in your work that you forget to do and take care of basic things. You just hadn't factored that into living with him.

Karkat sets his plate aside and clears his throat. “So. We're meant to come up with something believable to tell the press.”

You poke absently at the remnants of your chicken with your fork. Truth be told you’ve put about zero thought into what you’ll say in interviews. “You got any ideas?”

“Zahhak wanted us to say we'd been together from the start but you've been papped kissing women since then. So I thought we'd say, you know, we met that night, at that god awful party, liked each other, but didn't start dating until a bit later. Sometime after that publicity stunt you did with that model.”

You tilt a brow at him. “You been googling me, Vantas?”

“Like you haven't ever googled me.”

“Touché.” Your google results hadn't actually turned up much, though. A few articles about Karkat coming out as bi, several boring written interviews, and heaps of glowing reviews for his book. Karkat doesn't have social media of any kind, apparently. Good on him, but it meant there was no dirt for you to dig up.

You sit forward. “Alright, so say an interviewer asks about our first meeting, what you thought of me. What do you say?”

Karkat bites his lip as he thinks. “Hm. Well, I couldn't tell them the truth— that I thought you were an obnoxious, poorly dressed jackass.”

“Damn, dude.”

“I guess I'd say…” He gets a far off look in his eyes, like he's remembering. “I noticed you as soon as you entered the room. You were dressed rather, uh, flamboyantly. Every eye was on you. You were charming. When it came time for us to be introduced I let my nerves get the better of me— I was tongue tied. You were so... outgoing, so sure of yourself. It was intimidating. I avoided you for like an hour, sure you thought I was a dick. But when I came back to the table you smiled at me like we were friends. You had a nice smile. Bright, happy. I knew then that, at the very least, I wanted to be your friend.”

You could almost believe every word out of his mouth. Maybe you were wrong about being the best bullshitter in this fake relationship.

Karkat does kind of spoil it with what he says next. “I suppose if I wanted to lay it on really thick I could say it was love at first sight.”

“Pfft. Nah. It's supposed to be believable.”

“Okay. What about you, then? You'll be doing most of the talking.”

“You were an angry little pissbaby who didn't say two kind words to me the whole evening. The end.”

“Eat shit.”

You sigh. “Fine. I'd say something like…” You trail off as you try to conjure up your memories of that night. You remember getting butterflies in your stomach when you’d first laid eyes on Karkat. He was beautiful. There was an instant attraction there. An attraction that was stomped out almost immediately by his poor attitude.

But you cling to that feeling. You try to spin it into a love story. “When I saw you I knew right away that I wanted you. You were fucking gorgeous— you put everyone else in the room to shame. You were quiet the whole night, reserved,” he snorts here, “but I was determined to draw you outta your shell. The more I watched you, the more you spoke, the more I realized you were something special. I knew I had to see you again.”

Maybe it's the light but you can swear that, by the end of your tale, Karkat’s blushing.

You try to imagine what life might be like if the lies you’d just spun each other were true. What might've happened if your first interaction had gone as swimmingly as you’d said? Would you be friends now? More?

Karkat clears his throat, pulling you out of your own thoughts. “Sounds good to me,” he says.

You both seem to come to the unspoken agreement that that's enough for tonight as you start to clear the table. To your surprise, Karkat helps with the dishes. It's a task you go about in silence. How does one treat their enemy turned fake boyfriend? You have no damn clue, and it's probably safe to venture a guess that Karkat doesn't either.

After the dishes are done Karkat immediately disappears into his room. At first you’re relieved, but as you sit alone watching TV you can't help but think some company might be welcome. Even if it’s in the form of Karkat fucking Vantas.

Still, you can't bring yourself to actually go and speak to him. You’re not even sure how to have a real conversation with him. As in, a conversation that goes beyond trading barbs and glaring at each other.

You guess you’ll eventually have to learn if you’re to pull this off.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh, so you _are_ still alive. Good to know.”

Karkat looks up from where he's sat at the table, a book open in front of him. He scowls when he takes sight of you. “What?”

You frown back at him. It's been three days and you haven’t seen Karkat step foot out of his room a single time until now. You have to assume he's eating and showering in secret as he a) hasn't wasted away to nothing and b) doesn't look like an unhygienic greaseball. It's not exactly a huge apartment but you’ve somehow managed to avoid each other entirely. It's almost like you still live alone except that sometimes snacks disappear from the cabinets and once you found an errant sock in the hallway. You can't decide if you’re happy about this turn of events or just sort of disappointed. You’d certainly expected him to be more of a pain in the ass.

“Was startin’ to wonder if you'd starved to death,” you tell him. “Or snuck out on me. One or the other.”

Karkat returns your frown. “Oh, sorry— are you annoyed at me for staying out of your hair?”

You open your mouth, shut it again, and then say, “I’m annoyed at you for existing.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Because that makes so much fucking sense.”

“What are you even doing?” you snap. It's nearly noon but you’ve only just woken up. You’re entirely too sleepy to come up with any suitable witty retorts. It's a valid question, anyway. Karkat seems to be reading at the kitchen table with no food in sight, wearing a huge shirt with at least three holes in it, boxers covered in small pictures of crabs, and only one sock. There's a pile of unopened sugar packets next to him and a spoon.

“I was making tea. But I got distracted.”

“By... a book...?”

“ _My_ book, actually. On _your_ bookshelf.”

“I didn't buy it,” is your immediate response. You’ll be damned if you let Karkat think even for a second that you did. “That was a gift from Terezi, actually. As a joke.” The truth is, she had given it to you in some misplaced effort to get you to read it. You’d still refused. It's the principal of the thing.

“Doesn’t matter,” Karkat replies smugly. “Still contributed to my royalty check.”

You’re in the midst of opening your mouth to snap back at him when your phone rings.

“Sup.”

“Dave, hello.” It's Zahhak. He sounds somewhat anxious. “What are you doing? Is Vantas there with you?”

You take a seat next to Karkat and set your phone on the table between you. Karkat continues reading. “He is,” you inform Zahhak. “And you're now on speaker. Out with it.”

“Well, we've got your debut as a couple all arranged.”

“Oh really?” you ask. Beside you, Karkat goes stiff. If he were a dog you imagine his ears would be perked.

“Er, yes. Mr. Vantas's publisher was kind enough to inform us of an event he was invited to some time ago. It's a red carpet event meant to honor up and coming novelists. It's mostly an excuse for a lavish party it sounds like, but the important thing is there will be a carpet to walk and plenty of photographers to take pictures— more so after it's leaked that the two of you will be attending together.”

Karkat has taken to staring at the phone wide-eyed. You can't deny the little flurry of butterflies in your stomach at the idea of finally coming out, but he looks positively frightened.

“When?” you wanna know.

“That’s the part you may not like…” Zahhak clears his throat, a nervous habit of his. “It’s tonight.”

”No,” Karkat says immediately, snapping out of his trance. “No, I told her I'm not going to that.”

You ignore him— you’ve got other concerns. “Fuck. I thought we'd have more time. Wait—” you turn to Karkat. “Do you even have any media training?”

“It doesn't matter. I'm _not_ fucking going.”

“His publisher assures me he's had some,” Zahhak cuts in. “It'll have to be enough.”

“I’m not fucking going! And I'm sure as shit not going with you.”

That gets your attention. “What? Why not?”

Karkat shrinks in on himself, his anger dissipating as fast as it had come. “Because... that’s a writer's event. My colleagues, people I respect, will be there.”

â€œAnd you don't wanna be seen with me? Oh, fuck you, dude. I may not be some uptight, asshole novelist but I'm not some fucking embarrassment either—”

“It’s not that,” Karkat interrupts. “It’s just... the lie. I don't wanna lie to those people. And I'm the guest, they'll expect me to do most of the talking. I- I don't wanna go. I didn't wanna go in the first place. I tossed that invitation out with the rest of them.”

“Rest of them?” you wonder, but Zahhak talks over you.

“I'm afraid you don't have much choice, Mr. Vantas. But don't worry— Dave will take the lead. All you've got to do is stand next to him and smile.”

Karkat groans, like smiling is a bothersome chore. Maybe, for him, it is. You’re pretty fucking sure you can count the number of times you’ve seen Karkat genuinely smile on one hand.

“We’ll be there,” you say before Karkat can get another word in. You practically hang up on Zahhak in your haste to cut off any more protestation. Karkat glares at you for a full ten seconds before he stomps off like a little kid toward his room.

It’s whatever. You just hope he's gotten over his tantrum by this evening.

* * *

Zahhak sends a car around to get you both. It's a ride spent in tense silence. When you arrive you’re immediately separated to be primped and prettied for the event. It's a process that takes longer than you might think and it's nearly an hour and a half later that you’re reunited as you’re being bustled into another car— a limo this time.

You can't stop casting sneaky glances at Karkat. Not that you’d ever admit it, of course. It's just that he cleans up incredibly well. He's already naturally good looking but after a team of people dedicated to making him look his best have finished with him he's undeniably an eleven. In a suit and tie, with his dark mussed up curls and soft round face, he’s fucking gorgeous. Stunning, in a word, and though you’d never ever say it aloud, it's making you feel kinda inadequate. You actually catch yourself thinking— will people buy that someone on his level would go for a guy like you?

But you quickly realize that's bullshit and discard the thought altogether.

You fall back on your old standby- talking the nerves away. You’re not keen on starting another argument, though, not mere minutes before you’re meant to convince the world you’re a loving couple, so you try for a lighter tone as you ask, “You good?”

From the outside it's very apparent that Karkat is not good. He hasn't said a single word (nor insult) since the call with Zahhak and he can't seem to stop fidgeting or biting his lip. He's so tense you think he might shatter at the slightest breeze. He seems more nervous than you.

He shrugs in answer to your question, which isn't all that promising.

You try a different approach. “What’s up, Vantas? You really that embarrassed at having to play my pretend boyfriend?”

Karkat shrugs again. “I just... don't like cameras, is all. They make me nervous.” He turns to look at you for the first time since his impressive glare earlier. “What about you? Sure you're ready to go out there and tell the whole world you like dick?”

You laugh, despite yourself. “S’just how I'll phrase it. Start off every convo with 'why yes, I _do_ like dick.’”

You’re pretty sure you can spot the beginnings of a smile. It fades too quickly. “Really, though,” Karkat says, going somber. His eyes flick over your features, over your shades, searching for... something. You don’t know what. “It wasn't easy for me. Coming out. And I didn't have to do it in front of thousands of people, with cameras pointed at me…”

You’ve wanted this for a long time, begged Zahhak for it a couple of times, but now that the moment has finally arrived you’re not sure how you feel. A bit nervous, yeah, but beyond that?

“I can't take it back,” you say. “Whatever happens, I can't take it back. That's the scary part, y’know?”

Karkat doesn't bother with a comforting turn of phrase. He hums his agreement. It's the truth and you both know it. If this goes poorly for you, if people don't react as favorably as your management is hoping that's it. You may as well have committed career suicide.

Karkat's fingers twitch toward you, like he's thinking of reaching out to you. He says, almost softly, “I know I'm probably the last person in the world you want with you for this.”

“Nah,” you say, feeling generous. “Not the last. I can think of a few worse people. But only a few.”

That draws out another half-smile. Evidently Karkat is feeling generous as well— or maybe you’re both thinking the same thing. That you better soften the other up so the upcoming act looks half convincing. Still, he preens at your compliment. If it could be called a compliment. “You know, you don't look half bad in a suit.”

“That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

Karkat hums again. You both turn to look out the window in unison as the car pulls up even with the red carpet. It stretches before you, ominously long, crowds of people on either side. You can already hear the voices, the clamoring, muffled from inside the car.

Karkat takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Ready?” you ask.

He nods.

The car door is opened for you. You step out first, your long legs unfolding gracefully as you slip into the role you’re meant to play. That of the calm, cool, collected celebrity. You push your nerves, your fears, to the far corner of your mind and plaster on a douchey smirk, waiting dutifully until Karkat is standing by your side before you proceed. The clicking and flashes of the cameras start up immediately. Journalists shove microphones in your direction, begging for a word. Zahhak clearly did his job as far as letting the press know you and Karkat would be here. There's a surprising number of music publications present for an event meant for novelists. You let yourself be drawn in by one you recognize— Zahhak would kill you if you forewent the interviews entirely, but you intend to get away with as few as possible. This is just a warmup, after all.

“Don’t you two look sharp,” says the woman, petite and bottle-blonde. “Mr. Vantas, why did you choose to bring Dave Strider as your plus one?” She's practically shouting to be heard over the controlled chaos around them.

Karkat is half-hiding behind you. “We’re, uh,” he stammers. “He's my—”

You graciously interrupt, “We're on a date.” You sound sort of proud about it without even meaning to. Mostly it just feels like a weight off your chest. “Sometimes I date dudes. There's a scoop for you.”

“Have the two of you been dating long?” the woman asks, an excited glint in her eye. She doesn't seem the least bit surprised by your news, which is. Well.

“A few months, yeah,” you reply, a vague enough answer that it doesn't nail them down to anything. You tilt your glasses down and look over the lenses, adding, “He’s it for me, man, what can I say.”

The woman clearly has another question on the tip of her tongue but you and Karkat are swept up in the crowd and urged forward.

Karkat takes your hand and whisper-shouts, “Thanks.”

Karkat's hand isn't soft. Rather, it's dry and he's got calluses. But his grip is reassuring. He's probably only doing it because it's what he’s supposed to do but you don’t care. It doesn't matter. The contact is comforting. It's an anchor point. You squeeze back, a silent _you're welcome_.

The rest of the interviews go much the same way. You try to come up with a funny way to answer the question ‘why are you here together’ every time, until, at the last interview, you snap, “For fuck’s sake, people, we’re both dudes, we're holdin’ hands— put two and two together.”

When you turn to Karkat after, he’s practically beaming at you. It's an expression you've never seen on him before. It scrunches up his face, makes him look younger. It's got you smiling back in an instant. Then you remember— right, you hate this dude, he's a total prick. You don’t drop the smile though. People are still taking pictures of you and it makes for a good shot.

Past the red carpet, the actual event is enough to bore you to sleep. It's a lot of stuffy people giving speeches. There's champagne, though. And food.

A lot of people come by your table to congratulate Karkat on his success. You roll your eyes more times than you can count. Some of them are such obvious suck ups, such obvious leeches. Only a handful of them seem genuine. Karkat is short and snappy through it all, but he's perpetually pink in the cheeks and you’re aware of his leg jiggling nervously under the table. You place your hand on his knee. That stills him right away so you keep it there until, thankfully, it's time to take your leave.

You sit well apart from each other in the car.

“What now?” Karkat asks, some distance into the journey.

You shrug. “Now we wait.”

* * *

You pad into the kitchen at the godawful time of seven in the morning. Something woke you up. You’re not sure what, but once your already tenuous grasp on sleep was broken you couldn't regain unconsciousness. There was no point lying in bed counting ceiling tiles.

For the first time in your brief coexistence, it seems Karkat has woken up before you. You find him once again sitting at the kitchen table, this time with a bowl of cereal and the paper open in front of him. He looks a different person from the one in the car with you last night. His hair is way messier than usual, and he's in a baggy t-shirt that drapes over his collarbones rather than a stiff turtleneck or crisp suit, exposing healthy slivers of brown skin. He looks tired but at ease— and bizarrely radiant, shrouded in the golden light of morning.

You’ve only ever known one side of him. The side that blows his lid at you and sticks to familiar people— the dude that turns his nose up at new acquaintances. That Karkat is loud, pissy, and full of himself. Unapproachable. The Karkat of last night, pretty and anxious, and this Karkat, sleepy and comfortable, are new and strangely human. You feel thrown off.

“Morning,” he grumbles with a glance in your direction. He taps the paper with a callused finger. “We're front page news.”

You approach the table to see for yourself and, sure enough, your own face, colored in black and white, is printed there under the headline _Dave Strider's Shocking Announcement_. In the picture you’re holding Karkat's hand and you’re smiling at each other like you mean it. It's convincing. At least, you think it is.

“Wasn’t really an 'announcement',” you mutter. “S’not not like I really went out there and started telling ‘em all I like dick.”

“You may as well have. Here, get a load of this.” Karkat picks up the paper and starts reading an excerpt aloud. “'Dave Strider and Karkat Vantas arrived hand in hand to the event, looking every bit the glamorous, happy couple. The two were inseparable throughout the night. When questioned, Strider is quoted as saying, ‘ _He’s it for me._ ' Sorry, ladies, it looks like you may stand less of a chance with Dave Strider than you thought.'” Karkat rolls his eyes.

“I like girls, too,” you point out, even though he’s already well aware. “Oh, well. At least there's nothing really bad there.”

“Check the fucking... thing,” Karkat urges, eloquently. “The tweety thing.”

You stare at him blankly. “...Twitter?”

Karkat waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, that. See what people are saying.”

You trail back into your room to fetch your phone. You’ve got a few missed texts from Zahhak already, but you ignore them in favor of opening twitter as you wander back toward the kitchen. Sure enough, _#davekat_ is trending again, as is _#congratsdavekat_ , which is nice. At least you know not everyone has suddenly turned against you.

You check the first tag with some trepidation, but most of the tweets are overwhelmingly positive. There are a few negative, homophobic ones scattered about but, for the most part... People are supportive. It's incredible. You can't help but smile.

“Good, then?” Karkat asks when he spies your grin. He looks, in a word, hopeful.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, it's... really good.”

Karkat allows himself to smile back. He looks so relieved and it's not even his reputation on the line. “Do you think,” he says carefully. Then he starts over. “I think this is good. What you're doing.”

You settle in the seat next to him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if there's some kid out there, one of your fans, and they see this— their favorite pop star, holding hands with a guy, being out and proud, maybe it'll... help. You know?”

“God, I hope so. I mean, that's not why I did it. But it's a nice thought.”

“Now we just have to not fuck it up.”

“Right. Easier said than done.”


	3. Chapter 3

You’re not sure if it's intentional on Karkat's part but you’ve started seeing more of each other around the apartment. You repeat your breakfast together a couple of mornings, for example, Karkat reading the paper and you on your phone as you sit at the same table and have eggs or bacon or cereal or something. You smoke together on the balcony. One night you watch TV together, sitting on opposite ends of the couch.

You don't talk much and when you do it's mostly in snide comments and subtle digs. But it's... different now. Somehow. Less like you’re actually trying to hurt each other. But three years of animosity can't be wiped away in an instant.

You wake up on the fourth day after your outing (which is still making the rounds— Zahhak calls occasionally to provide updates on public opinion and the like) and Karkat is gone.

Not gone gone. All his things are still there. But he's not in the apartment.

You don’t think anything of it at first. You’re sure he just stepped out to run an errand or get some fresh air or something. After all, he spends most of his time cooped up in his room writing. Maybe he needed a break?

You decide not to care. Not until it's eleven at night and Karkat’s still gone. You can't help but be— not _worried_ , you’re not worried. Karkat’s a grown man, he can do what he wants. But... disappointed? No, you can't even admit to that much. It's just strange, that's all. You just find it strange that Karkat would choose to stay gone all day.

By mid-morning the next day, when you wake up and Karkat’s still gone, you’re sort of peeved. And it only gets worse as the day goes on.

Zahhak calls. “Gig tonight,” he says. “First time playing tracks off the new record. Nervous?”

You’re smoking yet another cigarette on the balcony. It's your third in as many hours. More than you usually smoke. “Nah, dude. They'll love the new shit. But you didn't call just to check up on my mental state, did you?”

“Er, no,” Zahhak replies in a tone that suggests he finds you rude for cutting through his bullshit. “I’m actually calling to make sure Mr. Vantas intends to make an appearance tonight. This is a one-off charity gig, it's special, it'll be covered. He needs to at least be seen— and preferably photographed— at the sidelines.”

You don’t wanna tell Zahhak the truth— that Karkat has disappeared to god knows where. Instead what comes out of your mouth is, “He'll be there.”

You sound absolutely sure. Zahhak doesn't even question you.

You try calling Karkat (whose number still isn't programmed in). No answer. You leave a voicemail, repeat what Zahhak had said. After a couple of hours you still haven’t heard a peep out of him. So you try texting and get no reply. When it’s time to go, you’ve written him off. You figure there's no way Karkat’ll show.

And he doesn't for the first half hour. You try to put him out of your mind and focus on the performance. And it's _good_ , you can feel that it's good, the crowd (small, intimate— tickets had cost an arm and a leg, or close enough) is so into it, into you, all of them pushing forward, trying to get as close to the stage as they can. They go crazy for the new songs and that feels really good, too. But something still seems... off. Some part of you is still wondering where he is and worrying about being caught in your lie by your manager.

Thirty minutes in, though, you look over, stage right, and there's Karkat, looking just this side of uncomfortable with both hands shoved in his coat pockets. He keeps throwing glances at the audience, maybe wondering if people have noticed him yet, maybe searching out the cameras. When he spots you looking at him, he smiles.

You return the smile, more for the benefit of the fans and cameras present than out of any actual desire to smile at him. You guess there’s a little thrill that comes with having Karkat there. It gives you a reason to show off, an opportunity to show him how great you are at what you do. Mostly, though, you’re mad. It's an unreasonable anger, an anger you can't pinpoint the source of, not really. You chalk it up to this— to Karkat leaving you wondering and worrying and then turning up perfectly fine at the last second.

The final song of the night you dedicate to Karkat, referring to him in an over-the-top syrupy voice as, “The light of my life, ladies and gents.”

You mostly do it to piss him off. You know he wouldn't want the attention drawn to him.

Maybe it's a bit too much, though, because Karkat is gone by the time you’re finished. You bound offstage, expecting to find him waiting, only to be informed by a passing roadie with a knowing smirk that, “Vantas went out the back way already, man.”

You figure maybe he went out to have a smoke but, no, he's not waiting just outside either. Two seconds later and your phone vibrates in your pocket, a text. It's from Karkat— you’ve got the number memorized now. It reads simply, **SEE YOU AT HOME.**

For a moment your thumb hovers over the screen, ready to tap out a reply, but in the end you leave it.

You’re not sure what to do with Karkat's use of the word home.

* * *

“Where were you?”

Karkat looks up from his laptop. He levels you with a glare. “What?”

You lean against the door frame, arms crossed over your chest. It's the first time you’ve seen the guest room since Karkat moved in. It's fairly tidy still but he's left his mark in the form of clothes on the floor, books on the nightstand, stacks of paper on the desk, and an overflowing trash can.

“Last night,” you clarify, voice tight. “Where were you?”

Karkat glances absurdly around the room before he replies, like you might possibly be talking to someone else. “It’s not really any of your fucking business,” he says, eyebrow raised in a silent challenge. “Why do you even care?”

You falter. Open your mouth, close it again.

“Were you worried?” Karkat scoffs at the very idea.

“Fuck you,” you snap, instinct. “It is my business, dude. You can't be seen out partying, cozying up to some other guy!” It's not something that had occurred to you before but you latch onto the excuse, run with it. “If they get a shot of you with your hands all over someone else our story is shot to shit.”

Karkat stands, hands balled into fists at his sides. He's going on the defense, you realize. No doubt triggered by your own harsh tone. “I’m not a fucking idiot, Strider, you don't think I know that? I'm not stupid, I haven't even been near anyone else since I agreed to this dumbass stunt.”

“Well... good,” you falter again. “So why can't you just tell me where you were, then?”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “You really wanna know? Fine, I was with Kanaya. Maryam. My cousin. In her apartment. Just us. All night. Happy now?”

His cousin. He was with his cousin. He wasn't out partying or getting laid, like you thought. You immediately deflate, the anger leaking out of you.

“Yeah, alright,” you mutter. You’re not gonna apologize to him.

“She had a bad fucking breakup,” Karkat elaborates, needlessly. “We got drunk on cheap wine and passed out on the couch and absolutely nothing scandalous happened, dickhead.”

“I said alright,” you gripe.

“I’m being _careful_. I'm not just sitting here dreaming up ways to screw you over.”

You sigh again, uncross your arms, stuff your fingers in your pockets instead. “Why’d you show up late? To the show?”

“My phone was dead. Got your messages when I finally got back here and charged it. I got there as soon as I could.”

You shift awkwardly from foot to foot. You have to ask. “Why’d you leave early?”

“I’m not great with crowds. Didn’t think you'd mind.”

You don’t wanna fish for compliments, you really don’t. But. “I thought you might've left, cuz, y’know, you didn't... uh.” You duck your head. “The music…”

Karkat is quick to catch on. He looks surprised.“No, no it wasn’t that. You were good. Like, really good.” He closes some of the distance between you, touches his fingers to your arm, like the contact will get his point across. “Really. I liked it. I wanted to stay, I just... couldn't.”

From arguing to reassurance so quickly. You never would've dreamed that Karkat Vantas would pay you a sincere compliment. At least, you assume it's sincere. For only the second time in your entire three years of knowing each other there's no spite in Karkat's eyes. No bite to his tone. You’re left unsure how to respond.

Karkat withdraws his hand. He glances back at his still-open laptop.

“Uh, sorry,” you blurt. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

You turn on your heel and retreat to the living room before Karkat has a chance to say anything. The thing is, you had come home angry, with the intention of giving him an earful, but the whole encounter has just left you feeling out of sorts.

You settle on the sofa and turn on the TV. There's an old black and white movie on. You leave it. It's all white noise anyway, or might as well be. Your mind won't stop racing. All your thoughts seem to center around Karkat. But that's normal, right? After all, Karkat is your new ( _temporary_ , can't forget that it's temporary) roommate, your new pretend boyfriend.... It's a very peculiar situation you’ve put yourselves in, it stands to reason that Karkat, and the situation, would be constantly at the forefront of your mind.

Right?

Except it's not really the situation so much as it’s just Karkat. The way he'd looked when he'd complimented you, for example. It’d been sincere, hadn't it?

You shake your head at yourself and pull out your phone, curious to see if any videos or pictures from tonight have cropped up yet. It's only been an hour and a half since the show ended but this is the age of the interwebz. You wouldn't be surprised if pictures had been going up while you were still on stage.

Sure enough, there are already plenty of grainy pictures of Karkat standing just offstage floating around online, a few excited tweets from fans who spotted him, and a six second video of you dedicating the final song to him. Nothing from any of the professional photographers and no headlines yet, though.

There's a text from Zahhak. It just says 'good job'. Coming from anyone else you might wonder if it was meant to be sarcastic, but sadly Zahhak hasn't got a single sarcastic bone in his beefy body.

You shut your phone off and turn back to the TV.

At some point, several minutes later, Karkat settles next to you. Not at the opposite end of the sofa this time but right next to you, with barely a breath of space left. He passes you a soda.

Maybe it's a peace offering, you don’t know, but you accept it. You wind up watching sitcom reruns together until somewhere around three in the morning, when Karkat dozes off, his head on your shoulder. You don’t even think of waking him. Instead, you draw a blanket over the both of you and gingerly adjust your positions until you’re comfortable enough to fall asleep, too. It's not ideal but Karkat is warm and the soft buzz from the TV makes it easy to slip into dreams.

When you wake up the sun is lighting up the room and Karkat is gone. Apparently he hasn't gone far, though. You can hear movement in the kitchen. The soft opening and shutting of cabinets, the gentle padding of bare feet across the tile, the clinking of glasses. A quick glance at your phone tells you it's nearing noon.

You shuffle yourself into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes beneath your sunglasses and willing your low-level headache to go away. Karkat smiles softly at you when he notices you. He looks like he hasn't been awake long himself, still loose and languid with the last dregs of sleep. He gestures lazily at a steaming mug sitting on the counter.

“Morning,” greets. “Made you coffee.”

It's such a nice gesture, something that until now you would've believed uncharacteristic of him. It doesn't fit with the image you’ve always had of him, of a selfish prick. It's a small thing but it's still weirdly meaningful.

You pick up the mug but pause just before the first sip. “S’not poisoned, is it?”

Karkat doesn’t say anything, benign smile still in place, and sips his own coffee.

You decide to risk it. If Karkat kills you it'll make for a good headline, anyway.

“You know,” you say, taking note of the prominent circles under Karkat's eyes. “We don't actually have to be anywhere until later tonight. You could've slept a bit longer.”

“It’s fine. Had a weird dream. Didn't feel like sleeping after it.”

“About what?”

“Doesn't matter.” A pause, then he adds, “It’s this deadline. It's got me fucked up.”

You nod like you understand. You do, to an extent, but your job comes with a different set of worries. Still, you can definitely sympathize with stressing so hard you get nightmares. “Are you, like... on track?”

Karkat immediately shakes his head, then stops. “I don't wanna talk about it, honestly. Let's talk about this interview tonight instead. Is it live?”

The interview in question is televised, some daytime talk show. Zahhak had set it up, along with a few others, more or less as soon as you’d agreed to the stunt. He'd forwarded you and Karkat what he was ambitiously calling an itinerary a few days back, with a note that you should 'prepare' for the interviews listed. You haven't done any preparing, mostly because you keep remembering that first night, and how weird it'd felt to hear Karkat talk about you like he actually cared, and it puts you off.

“There’ll be a live audience but nah, it's taped. It'll air tomorrow.”

“Great,” Karkat mumbles. “They can edit out all the stupid shit I say.”

You don’t bother comforting him. After all, you’ve heard Karkat say some really stupid shit.

* * *

The woman conducting the interview is somehow both harsh and motherly, with blonde hair cut into a bob and a matching blue blazer and pencil skirt. You and Karkat watch from backstage as she lectures the audience on healthy eating, patiently awaiting your turn to go on.

“They put fucking makeup on me,” Karkat complains as he checks his reflection in a nearby mirror. “Feels weird.”

Usually you might have come back with a smart comment, an insult, but you get the feeling now's not the time. Karkat is on edge, the way he'd been in the car before you’d walked the red carpet. He keeps going back and looking in the mirror every few minutes, something that you once would've chalked up to narcissism but now credit to nerves.

“You look good, bro,” you tell him truthfully. “Stop worrying.”

Karkat opens his mouth like he's got a sharp retort but evidently thinks better of it. Instead he takes a deep, steadying breath.

The host introduces you as the 'hottest new couple in the industry' and you walk on to one of your songs, smiling and waving at the applauding crowd as you’re supposed to. In fact, most of the interview is very cookie cutter. She starts off by asking about your new album, when it'll be available, what fans can expect, etc. etc. Karkat, sitting with his legs crossed beside you on the plush, TV-ready couch, relaxes in increments as he's continually ignored. When the host finally addresses him he seems put off, like he thought he could actually go the whole interview unnoticed.

“Uh, I don’t…” is his ever-so-eloquent answer to the question 'you seem quite shy, are you quite shy?’

“It’s just that, despite your popularity as an author, we hardly ever see you in front of the camera,” the host says, smiling to reveal overly-whitened teeth. “Not even for the occasional interview. Why is that, Karkat? You're quite handsome. Isn't he, Dave?”

“Oh, definitely,” you say with a grin, drawing a few cheers from the audience. It's not a lie. It's Karkat's one major redeeming quality, in your very honest opinion. “But he prefers to keep to himself. Don't you, babe?”

“Sure. Yeah,” Karkat haltingly agrees. He taps his fingers on the armrest. “I don't think knowing what I look like is essential to enjoying my books. Right?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” the host assures him, rushing to smooth over any accidental offense. “They stand on their own. Your first novel became an instant classic. We're all quite eager to see what you'll come out with next. Are you working on anything new?”

Karkat flicks a glance at the camera. He nods, lips a thin, unsmiling line.

“Wonderful! What can you tell us about it? Anything?”

He shifts, uncrosses then re-crosses his legs. “It’s, like. It's a love story, you know…”

The host's smile becomes so wide it crinkles up the corners of her eyes. “Oh, splendid! Inspired by the turn in your own love life, I take it?”

“Sort of…” Karkat admits. He looks at you then away again. He bites his lip. You find yourself curious. Is his new book really anything to do with you or is he saying that for the sake of your charade?

The host leans forward in her chair, like she's eager for the next bit. “If you don't mind me asking, could I hear, in your own words, how the two of you met? Was it love at first sight?”

Karkat's lips curl as he thinks. You can practically see the gears turning as he tries to recall the bullshit he'd fed you the first night you stayed together. Eventually he settles on, “God, no. It wasn’t love at first sight. But it was fate, I think, right, Dave?”

“Yeah. Fate. Definitely.”

It's weird, hearing Karkat refer to you by your first name. It shouldn't mean anything. It's just a name. But Karkat so often calls you Strider or fuckface or dickhead or some other stupid shit. You can't help but notice. It's not the first time he’s called you that but it's the first time it's really struck you.

Karkat falters. You belatedly realize that was his attempt at throwing the question over to you. “When he walked in my eye went right to him,” Karkat says after an awkward moment. “I didn't recognize him, it was before he got so famous, you know? But I was still nervous meeting him. I didn't say much…”

“I got him talking eventually,” you jump in, smiling over at Karkat, mostly just as a comfort, but the audience aw's. “He’s really somethin’ special. After we met we became fast friends, then, eventually... I dunno. I guess I realized I didn't wanna share him anymore.”

More aw's from the audience and polite applause. The host looks thrilled with your answers, and even more thrilled when you reach over to take Karkat's hand. Karkat squeezes your fingers. He looks... relieved.

The interview wraps up pretty swiftly after that, with only a few more standard questions that you’re able to answer with ease. You and Karkat are still hand in hand as you walk offset. In fact, Karkat doesn't drop your hand until well after you’re out of sight of the cameras. Just as a precaution, probably.

“That wasn’t so bad,” you say. “You did good.”

Karkat grimaces. “Everyone that watches that shit tomorrow is gonna wonder what the fuck you see in me.”

You scoff. “And if they ask I'll tell ‘em you're a damn good lay. Now come on, _babe_. Let's go home.”

* * *

You’ve only just fallen asleep when you’re woken by a loud clap of thunder. It shakes the apartment, rattles the window panes. You listen for a moment to the wind whistling past, to the torrential downpour of rain. It's as a bright streak of lightning lights up your room that there comes a soft knock at the door. It's nearly lost in the sounds of the storm but you catch it, shove your shades on and call, “Come in.”

Karkat has a blanket draped over his shoulders and a look on his face like he's bracing himself for rejection. Something about the way his clothes hang so loosely off him makes him seem small, fragile. The circles under his eyes are ever prominent against his dark skin. “Are you awake?” he asks, pointlessly.

You prop yourself up on your elbow to get a better look at him. You don’t bother answering his dumb question. Instead you get straight to the point. “What's up?”

Karkat shuffles a little closer. “Um, I was just wondering if I could…” he trails off, shakes his head at himself. He decides to start over. “I had another nightmare.”

“Stay,” you say simply, without a thought. You know that's what Karkat wants and you get it. You’re not cruel enough to make him ask and, as mean as you’ve been to each other over the years, you’re not cruel enough to turn him away either. “There’s plenty of room,” you add, gesturing at the other half of the bed.

Karkat drops his blanket to the floor and climbs into your bed. It should be weird, probably. Karkat Vantas in your bed. But it's not. Or at least not as weird as you would’ve thought.

He searches for your hand in the dark, laces your fingers together under the covers. “Thanks,” he says. He's trembling. You can feel it.

“You scared of storms?”

“No. It really was just a nightmare. Bad one. Having someone else around helps.”

Another peal of thunder makes him jump, belying his words. You don’t call him out on it. “You live alone, right? What do you usually do when you have a nightmare?”

“Read a book, watch a movie, call one of my friends... but it's just, like, a matter of waiting for time to pass, you know? I can't usually sleep, after.”

You wanna say something comforting but everything that comes to mind is cheesy, fake. Instead you squeeze his hand, trying to let him know that it's okay to stay here, that he should feel okay sleeping. That it's safe.

You’re not sure if you really manage to convey all that but Karkat smiles at you in the dark and squeezes back.


	4. Chapter 4

You wake up with Karkat in your arms.

It's disorienting. It takes you a moment to come back to yourself, to remember the previous night. And then you’re just sort of…

Well, you don’t know how you feel about it, honestly. Because on one hand, that's Karkat Vantas lying next to you, his legs tangled with yours under the sheets and his head resting on your chest, and you get the feeling you should at least be a bit put off. On the other hand... that’s Karkat Vantas lying next to you, warm and looking oh so soft in his sleep and _fuck_ , he'd been so vulnerable last night, hadn’t he?

You’ve never woken up with someone else in your bed. Not to say you haven’t had a bit of fun here and there, the occasional random hookup once in a blue moon, but very rarely in your own apartment, and even then they don't stay. You’re not sure you’d want them to. But it’s nice to wake up next to someone. It'd been nice yesterday, to wake up and hear Karkat puttering about the kitchen. Having someone else in the apartment is just comforting to you in a way that's hard to describe, having someone next to you even more so.

The question that you find yourself asking is, _are you allowed to enjoy this?_

You don’t know. Karkat probably wouldn't appreciate your current positions. You can picture him waking up, and the look of disgust that would cross his face— a look he's given you far too many times. Then again, maybe that's a bit dramatic. You would rather not find out. You very gently disentangle yourself from Karkat, something that's difficult to do without waking him.

You pad lightly into the kitchen and set about making coffee, your mind already going over various things you might say to Karkat once he wakes up, trying to find a way to broach the topic of last night— or at least gracefully gloss over it— without making things completely fucking awkward.

Unfortunately you haven’t come up with anything by the time Karkat walks in a few moments later, yawning behind his hand, his hair a mess. It's unfair, really, that he's able to look so good like that. It's unfair that you’re burdened with noticing.

“Did I wake you?” you ask, tearing your gaze away from the sliver of hip revealed when Karkat stretches his hands over his head.

Karkat barely stifles another yawn, shrugs. “I dunno. Time to get up anyway, though, right?”

“I guess, yeah. Interviews and shit today.”

Karkat doesn't even bother hiding his displeased groan. “Fuck. I'll never understand how you celebrities put up with this shit on the daily.”

“I made coffee, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Loads,” Karkat says in a tone of voice that could be sarcasm. You’re not sure. But Karkat does round the counter to take the coffee mug, and when he touches you lightly on the arm (reminiscent of the way he had when he'd complimented you on your performance) and says, “Thanks,” he sounds genuine. His eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones when he closes his eyes to take a sip. It's not something you ever noticed before. You feel like you shouldn't be noticing now.

You wind up at the kitchen table, Karkat with a book and you on your phone, and it occurs to you then that this is becoming something of a routine. A routine you kinda like.

You never do talk about last night.

* * *

The interviews you have lined up are, thankfully, mostly for magazines and newspapers and stuff and are very little like your TV debut. Still, they go about as well as that one had. In one, for example, Karkat rants for a full five minutes about Hallmark. You watch the interviewer's face go from politely interested to confused to sort of peeved as her question (something to do with your first date) continues to go unanswered. At some point you finally take it upon yourself to interrupt Karkat and steer the conversation back on track. You’d honestly have been happy to let him ramble for the entirety of the allotted twenty minutes, but you know Zahhak would’ve lost his shit.

In another, the guy hosting the interview takes a pretty unprofessional interest in Karkat. At least, that's how you interpret the sugary compliments, the eyelash batting, the arm touching, the innuendo. He ignores you almost completely in favor of blatantly flirting with Karkat, who remains oblivious, or least does a damn good job of pretending to be oblivious. You’ve never been one to let yourself be ignored and, what's more, you won't stand for another guy hitting on your man, fake or not. You sling your arm tight around Karkat's shoulders, and he stops talking mid-sentence, evidently caught off-guard, but picks up again a moment later. The interviewer doesn't really back off but it makes you feel a little better, anyway.

It's already getting dark by the time you finally get back to the apartment. Karkat's phone rings just as you’re crossing the threshold. He answers with a smile. “Terezi,” he says. “How are you?”

You half-listen to Karkat's side of the conversation as you set about rooting through your own cabinets for a snack. Karkat's voice gets all stuttery as he replies to whatever Terezi had said with, “No, no, no... It's not exactly... like that. _No_ , fuck! We’d have told you, I swear, it's just—” He looks sort of panicked when you glance back at him.

You walk over and pluck the phone from Karkat's hand, take the liberty of putting it on speaker, intent on setting Terezi straight about the nature of your relationship, but she’s already mid-sentence, crowing, “I knew it! I knew it! What’d I tell you, Karkat?”

You keep quiet, raise a brow, curiosity piqued. Karkat goes a funny shade of pink. He tries to snatch the phone back but fails miserably when you hold it above your head (ha, short).

Terezi goes on, “You always said you hated his guts but I knew what I was doing when I set you up that night, didn’t I! Knew you'd get it on. I mean, it took you long enough, but—”

“But nothing!” Karkat snaps, raising his voice to be heard. He's resorted to glaring at you now. “Listen, Terezi, we'll talk later, alright?”

“Oho, did I interrupt something?” she laughs. You can practically hear the ridiculous eyebrow waggle she’s probably doing. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll leave you to it, then.”

She clicks off. You set the phone down on the counter. Karkat immediately snatches it up. For a moment you just look at each other, Karkat with narrowed eyes.

“Cat’s outta the bag?” you ask, pointlessly.

Karkat sighs. “She wasn’t happy we kept it from her. Our, uh... relationship.”

“You coulda told her the truth, you know.”

“We're not supposed to tell anyone.”

You shrug. Another pause, and then, “So, that first night. Three years ago. That was a setup?”

Karkat hesitates. “She just thought, you know, we were both single... But it was stupid. Right?”

You nod. “You knew, then? She never said anything to me. So, you went into that bar thinking…” Strange, to imagine that Karkat might've had some very different expectations at the start of that evening. But you remember that night all too well and Karkat had done absolutely nothing to indicate he might even be a little bit interested. He'd just been distant, annoyed by your presence. Then, later, an outright douchebag.

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” Karkat snaps, immediately getting defensive. “And it's a good thing my hopes weren't too high, huh? You were a douchemonger from the start.”

“Hold up— _you_ were the one with his nose in the air the whole evening. You ignored me for half the night and spent the rest insulting me. I only gave as good as I got, dude.”

Karkat scoffs. “Sounds like we remember that night a bit differently, Strider.”

You open your mouth, ready with a comeback, but then another thought distracts you. You realize, “Wait— that's why you weren't shocked at the meeting. About me, you know, liking guys. I didn't even think anything of it at the time but... Terezi told you.”

“She did.”

You have to lean against the counter as the full implication of that sinks in. “So you kept my secret for three years.”

“No shit,” Karkat says, like the idea of outing you, of selling that story to the press, never even occurred to him.

“Why?”

He frowns. “You really think so fucking little of me? I'd never do that, not even to you.”

The way he's got his brows furrowed makes him look like a disgruntled puppy. You have to stifle a fond smile. You’re kinda disgusted with yourself. Since when are you fond of Karkat Vantas? It's unnatural.

“Well... thanks. I dunno whether I should be angry with Terezi now.”

“She wouldn't have told me if I wasn’t trustworthy.”

“Actually I was talking about how she didn't tell me it was a setup. You gotta give a guy some heads up, y’know? Maybe it would've gone a bit differently if we'd both been in the know.”

“Oh, really? How do you figure?”

“I'd have tried harder to get into your pants, for one.”

“Ex-fucking-scuse me?”

You consider him for a moment, from his messy curls, to his full bottom lip, to his strategically unbuttoned pullover, to his tighter-than-necessary cords. You make it blatant, a once-over that has him glowering.

“Nah, never mind,” you say, mostly just to wind him up. “You’re hot but not that hot.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Hotter than you,” he grumbles, pushing past you, heading down the hall to his room. As an afterthought he adds over his shoulder, “You’d be fucking lucky to have me.”

You tear your gaze away from Karkat's ass and don’t contradict him.

* * *

Your bed feels too big for one person.

It is too big for one person but it's not something that ever bothered you before. Now, though, it feels all wrong. You’ve been tossing and turning for an hour, unable to get to sleep, alternating between wondering what Karkat is doing down the hall and chewing yourself out for wondering what Karkat is doing down the hall. You tell yourself it's not Karkat that you miss, just a warm body beside you. It could be anyone. But a part of you knows that's not true.

Maybe it's a good thing you’re unable to sleep. It means you’re awake to hear the shout from Karkat's room. You fling your shades on, get on your feet in an instant, the image of Karkat from last night— scared, trembling— still fresh in your memory. Unfortunately you’re greeted with a very similar scene when you reach his room.

He’s sitting up in bed, his knees drawn to his chest and his hands over his eyes. He doesn't seem to notice you’re there until you sit lightly on the edge of the bed, drawing his attention. He blinks at you once and hides his face again.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, breathless. “I didn't mean to wake you, god, I'm sorry.”

You cut him off. “It’s fine, dude,” you assure him, keeping your own voice low and steady. Soothing. You remove his hands from his face, hold them in your own instead. His hands are cold, clammy. He grips your fingers like his life depends on it. “Karkat, it's fine. What's up?”

“Fucking nightmares. Sorry, I really am, I can't help it.”

You shush him. “Stop apologizing, man. I'm not angry, alright? Promise.”

Karkat's eyes are shining like he's on the verge of tears but you can see him steeling himself, not daring to let one fall. He takes a deep breath. “I haven’t written anything readable in ages and this fucking deadline is killing me, I'm just…” He trails off, takes another shaky breath. “Stressed,” finishes. “They always get bad when I'm stressed.”

You don’t know what to say. You’ve never been good at comforting people, at being there for them, and you’ve certainly never had to comfort Karkat. You’re sort of amazed that he’s showing this side of himself, to be honest. You almost feel like this is a test. You don’t wanna fuck it up.

You stand and draw Karkat up with you by your hand. “You said being with someone helps, right? Stay with me tonight.” It’s not a question. You figure it's better that way. Karkat can say no if he wants to but you know, or at least think you know, that he’d be too prideful to say yes. To admit that he'd like to be comforted. This way he doesn't have to.

You pull him down the hall and into your own room. Karkat goes without complaint. He already seems calmer as he settles onto what you’ve already started thinking of as his side of the bed— it’s pathetic, but you can't bring yourself to care. You immediately pull him closer, arms wrapped around him, your chest to his back. He relaxes in your arms, goes pliant as the tension leaves him.

“Thanks,” he breathes. It's far from the disgusted reaction you’d imagined he would have to being held by you.

It's surprisingly easy to fall asleep once Karkat is next to you.

* * *

For the first time in your life, you wake up from a less-than-PG dream about Karkat. It's an abrupt awakening. One moment he’s straddling you, grinding down on you White Castle style, and the next you’re blinking at the real Karkat, sleeping peacefully beside you.

You’re quick to slip quietly out of bed. You get yourself off in the shower and don’t even try to pretend you’re thinking of anyone but Karkat. It’s still so fucking weird, how you’ve come such a long way. From hating each other to cuddling to having wet dreams. If someone had told you a month ago you’d be fantasizing about dicking around with Karkat fucking Vantas, you’d never have believed them. But here you are, doing just that, and it doesn't even seem all that strange.

At any rate, you refuse to feel guilty about it. What Karkat doesn't know won't hurt him, right?

He’s still asleep when you finish your shower, with one arm stretched over to your side of the bed, like maybe he misses your warmth.

You have an outing scheduled but not until later. You decide, since Karkat had such a rough night, to make you both coffee again. You feel kinda fucking domestic doing it. That feeling isn't helped at all when Karkat stumbles into the kitchen in a t-shirt and boxers, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and smiling blearily. You can't help but smile back, that damned fondness creeping up on you again.

“Careful,” he warns. “I might get used to this.”

“I don't mind,” you say honestly.

Karkat sort of laughs to himself, shakes his head. He rounds the counter to take his coffee. As he does, he goes up on his toes to give you a chaste peck on the lips. Casual as anything, like it's something you’ve done a thousand times before.

“Thanks,” he says, in a tone of voice that makes you think you’re being thanked for more than just coffee.

And then he turns away, unbothered. You can only blink at him, thankful for your shades as you feel the blood rush to your face.

Karkat just kissed you. _Karkat just kissed you_.

You tell yourself you won't be the one to turn it into something it's not, though. You tell yourself that if Karkat’s gonna be so nonchalant about it then you’ll do your best to be nonchalant about it, too. You tell yourself to stop thinking about it.

It’s useless, of course, because you think about it all fucking day. Like when you’re on your so-called date— a literal walk through the park. You’ve got some of the least subtle paparazzi following you so you’re hand-in-hand for the sake of the cameras. It's an unusually chilly day for the time of year. Karkat's cheeks have gone pink— a shade that matches that of his bitten lips. You can't stop glancing over at him, wondering if you could get away with a kiss of your own.

“Do I have something on my face?” Karkat asks when he catches you looking, brow raised.

You shake your head, pull Karkat to a stop by your hand. He looks so _good_ today, more well rested than usual, eyes bright and happy. Devoid of any of their usual guardedness. He looks up at you curiously, eye to lens, patiently waiting to see what you’ll do. Maybe you’re imagining it but you think you see a bit of a challenge there.

You don’t let yourself think about it too hard. You tilt his chin up with two of your fingers and close the distance between you. You keep it chaste but linger, both to give the paps time to get a decent shot and to savor the moment.

You’re kissing Karkat Vantas. What's even better is that he _doesn't pull away_. He grips your lapels to keep you close. It's a moment that should make for a perfect picture but you find you’re less concerned with that than you should be. You don’t really wanna pull away. Karkat smells really good, like a mix of soap and ozone. He sighs into the kiss, a satisfied sort of sigh, like he's just been waiting on you to kiss him and now that it's happened he can finally relax. That's probably just your stupid imagination talking, though.

You grin at him, when you separate. Karkat laughs but he's looking at you like he's trying to figure out the answer to an incredibly difficult riddle.

“They’re gonna love that,” you say, before you can help yourself, effectively and purposely breaking the moment.

Karkat glances uneasily back at the paparazzi, as if just being reminded that they're there. “Right,” he says. “Our first proper kiss, for all the world to see.”

There’s something strained about his tone that you try not to think about.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for the f slur

You stay up well into the morning in the vain hope that Karkat might turn up at your door again. You feel pathetic, stupid, confused. You’ve always been better than you should be at ignoring your own feelings but it's getting a bit difficult to cling to the notion that Karkat is worth hating. You really don’t wanna admit you were wrong, though. You can just picture Karkat's smug smirk if he ever knew you were second guessing yourself.

You fall asleep eventually, still very much alone in your room. Karkat is there when you wake up, though, standing over you and waving a tabloid in your face.

“The fuck?” you wonder, hand over your eyes, but it comes out as more of an unintelligible groggy noise.

“We made the front page,” he says. “Again.”

You check the clock on your bedside table. “You really had to wake me up at the ass crack of dawn, dude?”

“Seven in the morning is when normal people get up.” Karkat grumbles under his breath, “Fucking popstars.” As if he himself isn't one to sleep in.

You grudgingly sit up and take the tabloid. You are indeed printed on the front cover. It's a picture from your time in the park yesterday. You’re embracing, kissing, and it makes you uncomfortable for some reason. You’re quick to look away. “Fuck, we're convincing.”

Karkat nods grimly. You peer at him.

“What’s up with you, Vantas?” you ask, just noticing the circles under his eyes, so dark they could be bruises. The color stands out starkly against the rest of his face, which is gaunter than usual. Then there's the decided slump to his posture, like he can't be bothered holding himself entirely upright. You take another glance at the clock and it clicks. “You sleep last night?”

Karkat's answer is a sharp, humorless laugh, which isn't really promising. Then he says, seemingly out of nowhere, “My dad called. Earlier.”

“... And?”

Karkat sinks down onto the edge of the bed with a weary sigh. “And... I don’t know. He was asking about you. Made me feel like shit for 'keeping you secret'.”

“You could've told him the truth, man. I ain’t gonna tattle on you.”

“No. I'd rather he think we were actually together than think I'd agreed to some stunt with someone I hate for publicity, you know?”

Ouch. _Someone I hate._ Present tense.

“Plus, he was, like. Really excited, to put it mildly,” Karkat continues. “I didn’t wanna take that away from him.”

“Excited? Why?”

“He’s worried I'll turn into a bitter old man— the ones who yell at kids to get off their lawn. He’s been nagging me to get a so-called proper boyfriend for ages.” He pauses, then adds, “Maybe he’s hoping we'll adopt or something.”

You’ve never done the whole meet-the-parents thing. You’ve never even gotten to the stage in a relationship where you tell your family who you're seeing. Funny to think you’ve finally reached that stage with Karkat, who you’re not even really dating.

“He wants me to come home for a bit. To Seattle,” Karkat confides. “Take a rest, get my head on straight. I think he really wants to meet you.”

It’s kinda hard to imagine. Or maybe not so hard as it should be. You can picture a quaint little meeting at the Vantas’ house. Walking in with Karkat on your arm, getting introduced to his parents. There’d be stories traded over dinner. Embarrassing stories from Karkat's childhood, mostly, all told at your urging. He’d get flustered and start blushing and put up a token shitfit but he'd squeeze your hand under the table to let you know he didn't really mind. And at the end of the night he'd turn to you and say _I think they really liked you_ with one of those smiles on his face, the ones that crinkle up the corners of his eyes.

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “We leave for NY in two days,” you gently remind him. It's a promo trip, something that's been in the works since before Zahhak cooked up this deal with Karkat. Now that the press has taken such a shine to your relationship Zahhak’s demanding that Karkat tag along, even if it's mostly just to be papped at your side.

“I know, that’s what I told him. I'm not planning to run out on you, don't worry.”

“Well... good. New York'd be boring without you there to bully.”

Karkat scoffs. “Wow, planning to bully me, are you? And here I brought you breakfast. See if I share now, fuckface.”

“You went out? Gotta be careful, Vantas. There's paps outside every hour now. They see you leaving on your own in the wee hours of the morning…”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s hardly the 'wee hours', Strider, don't be dramatic. Besides, I snuck round the back. They never saw me. Now put some clothes on and come eat your fucking breakfast before I change my mind.”

You don’t bother putting clothes on and instead eat breakfast in just your pants. You don’t say thank you, either. It's the principal of the thing.

* * *

The next two days seem to pass quickly. Karkat spends most of his time holed up in his room, naturally, but he resurfaces for a span of about two hours one night to drink tea and watch as you dick around on your turntables. You learn, via an impromptu jam sesh, that Karkat's beats aren’t half bad. He's already got a big enough ego, though, so you keep your opinion to yourself.

The circles under Karkat's eyes don't get any better but he doesn't say anything about it or even hint that he's having trouble. He's definitely grumpier than usual on the day of departure. He doesn't say a whole lot and when he does open his mouth it's only to complain. Thankfully, he falls asleep about twenty minutes into the plane ride with his head on your shoulder and by the time you land he's looking a little more chipper. Less like he's gonna bite your head off for breathing wrong. Which is good, since you’ll be sharing a hotel room.

There's a small crowd of paparazzi waiting for you outside the airport. A larger crowd than normally follows you around. Karkat keeps a scowl on and sort of clings to you, his arm looped through yours and his other hand holding onto your sleeve. You’re the one to put on a happy face, even as the paparazzi call you a few choice names to try and get a reaction. You’re used to it, you’ve heard every insult in the book, but evidently it bothers Karkat, who clings harder and ducks his head. He sighs, relieved, once you finally make it to the taxi.

“Don’t get that often, as a writer,” he explains when he catches you looking at him. “Sorry.”

“It’s cool. I should've given you some heads up,” you admit. “I forget that you're not used to, like…”

“Angry white people calling me a fag? Sadly I'm not as used to it as I'd like to be.”

“Even you, huh?”

Karkat shrugs. He fixes his gaze on something outside the window. Maybe he's remembering. “Yeah. Even me.”

You’re surprised to find that the idea of someone hurling insults like that at Karkat and meaning them makes your blood boil. You sort of wish you’d been around when he came out. You’re sure Karkat had his support system, people to be there for him through it all, but you find yourself wishing you were one of them. Maybe you could've sheltered him from some of the backlash. Backlash that shouldn't even exist in the first place.

“Guess I've had it easy,” you admit. “Thanks to you.”

Karkat shrugs like he's uncomfortable with the gratitude being thrown his way. “I hope it's helped,” he says.

“It has,” you assure him. “I think... it'd be different if I was alone. So, uh. Thanks.”

Karkat shrugs again. You drop it after that.

* * *

Your shared hotel room contains a single king sized bed and little else. Neither of you make a fuss over it. You were half expecting it, honestly. Zahhak is nothing if not thorough. Booking a single room just makes your charade all the more convincing.

Karkat doesn't even comment on it. He sets his bags on the floor and immediately pulls out his laptop, presumably to start writing. You take that as a sign that there's not gonna be much conversation, and wind up eating alone in the hotel dining room.

It's... lonely. You never thought you'd wind up craving Karkat's company. Maybe prolonged exposure is to blame?

Karkat’s still tapping feverishly at the keys of his laptop, hunched over it where it sits on the table in the corner, by the time you climb into bed. You fall asleep with the image of his profile cast in the glowing white light of his laptop burned into the back of your eyelids.

Not that you stay asleep long. Karkat is still at it when you next open your eyes. The clock on the bedside table kindly informs you in soft blue numbers that it's nearing four in the morning.

“Karkat,” you call, softly, your voice little more than a whisper. “Karkat, you've gotta rest, dude. Come to bed.”

Karkat's fingers still. He bites his lip. You know you’ve been heard but he does nothing to acknowledge you.

“C’mon, then,” you urge, getting slowly to your feet. “Let’s go for a smoke. You gotta give your eyes a break.”

Karkat hesitates still. You reach blindly toward the nightstand and fumble around until your fingers find your shades and a pack of cigarettes. You trail out to the balcony— if it could be called that— without waiting to see if Karkat’ll follow. You know he will, and of course you’re proven right when not even a full minute later he sidles up next to you and wordlessly holds out a hand. You pass him a cigarette, then the lighter. There's barely room enough for both of you to stand together on the so-called balcony but the view is, admittedly, pretty great. New York’s always been one of your favorite cities to visit.

The tip of the cigarette glows orange as Karkat draws in a lungful of smoke. On the exhale he says, “You know, I think I had you all wrong.”

“How’s that?” you wonder. You take a drag of your own cigarette. You can feel Karkat watching you.

“I thought you were a dick.” He pauses, corrects himself. “No, you _were_ a dick. But I thought that was all you could be. You've been proving me wrong here lately, Strider, and I'm wondering— why?”

“Why... what?”

Karkat didn't bother styling his hair this morning. It was a mess already, it just gets worse when he runs his hands through it. You love seeing him this way. Messy hair, comfortable clothes. In a word, relaxed. It's like he's a different person from the one you met in a bar three years ago. “Why’ve you been so fucking… nice? Ever since I moved in, you've been... different.”

The early hours have always made an honest dude out of you. For whatever reason you find it's easier to tell the complete truth under the cover of night, under the stars or the streetlamps, when tiredness is weighing down your limbs and everything feels like a dream. “Guess I fucked up. That first night, I mean. I think I had you all wrong, too.”

Karkat smiles, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “What’re you saying, asshole? You don't hate me anymore?”

You prop yourself up on the cold iron railing, stare out at the hundreds of cars clogging up the streets below. “I never really hated you, dude.” You can't look at Karkat as you say it, don’t wanna see his undoubtedly smug expression. “I just hated what I thought you were, y’know?”

“Which was?”

“A douche.”

That makes him laugh, a soft thing. You do look at him then. Some of the smugness you expected is there but a different expression is overwhelming it. You couldn't put a name to it on gunpoint but Karkat’s smiling. That seems important, you think.

You don’t know what to say. He’s so close, standing barely a breath away. You’re hyper-aware of the heat he gives off.

“I’ll never admit I said this but— you're not so bad, Dave,” Karkat says after a moment, looking up at you through his stupidly long, stupidly pretty dark lashes. “You’re really not.”

Your eyes drop to his lips. It'd be so easy to kiss him right now. Fuck, you’ve wanted to kiss him again since that day in the park. But there's no excuse to give, this time. No paparazzi to blame it on.

He turns away before you give in to the whim. He drops his cigarette on the concrete.

“Come to bed,” you say again. You stub out your own on the railing. “You’ll wanna be wide awake for tomorrow.”

Karkat sighs. “I guess you're right.”

You settle on opposite sides of the bed, no part of you touching. Not until Karkat reaches out to twine your fingers together.


	6. Chapter 6

“He’s awesome, obviously. I've really never felt this way about anyone. He's, like… my soulmate, you know?”

The audience aw's and breaks into applause. The interviewer looks like she's gonna melt. If Karkat were on camera and not standing just offset they'd probably have caught him rolling his eyes. You’re too busy trying to look lovesick to glance over at him and check.

“How sweet, Dave! I think there were some of us who thought you might never settle down.”

“It wasn’t, uh, planned. But when you meet the right person...” You trail off, shrug. “Karkat just brings out the best in me.”

More cooing from the audience. The interviewer's smile keeps getting wider. “Lovely,” she croons. “Is there anything you can tell us about the reclusive writer that we don't already know? He's a difficult man to get an interview with.”

You do look at Karkat then. He's leaning against the wall, watching, legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded over his chest. When he catches you looking at him he raises a single brow, as if in challenge. As if to say, _you've got nothing on me, asshole._

“He'd kill me for telling you,” you say, still watching Karkat over the interviewer's shoulder. “But this one, man, he's a cuddler. And a big softie, too. The other day he teared up at that ad on TV with all the sad pets and shit. You know the one.”

Karkat shakes his head but he can't deny it's the truth. The interviewer giggles, delighted. “I think we all suspected he was soft and sweet under that prickly exterior,” she says. “Anyone who writes the way he does would have to be, wouldn't they? But it's nice to hear proof.”

You make a vague noise of agreement. You guess you’ll have to read that dang book sooner or later, just so you’re not caught looking like a bad boyfriend.

The interview wraps up with yet another plug for your new album. As you walk offset Karkat grabs your hand and spits, “You better watch your back, shithead.”

You laugh as your security, some guy whose name you can’t remember for the life of you, starts herding you both toward the exit and out to the car. “I went easy on you, dude. I got pics on my phone they'd get a real kick outta. Shit from last Halloween, for example.”

“Fuck you,” Karkat says, offended. “That was a good fucking costume, go fuck yourself.” 

“Didn't win best costume though, did you?”

“Neither did you,” he grumbles. “Also, you were laying it on a bit thick out there. _Soulmates_? Really, Strider? You're the one who said it was meant to be believable.”

“Just giving the people what they want.”

Karkat opens his mouth to argue but winds up conceding the point with a hand wave. There are a few paparazzi snapping photos as you slide into the backseat of the car. You flash them a peace sign and a grin. Karkat is quick to duck out of sight.

“What's next?” he asks once you’ve climbed in and shut the door. “We've got that stupid party thing tonight, right?”

“Yeah. Just an excuse for a buncha famous people to be seen together, really. I dunno if there's a single person I actually like on the guest list. So, you know. Should be a good time.”

Karkat already looks fidgety. “Remind me again why I've gotta go?”

You kick lightly at his foot. “You know why. It'd be pretty fucking weird if I turned up without you.”

Karkat pulls a face.

You kick at him again. “Look, it's not a big deal, really. 's not like you'll be giving interviews and stuff. Just try to enjoy yourself.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I'll be there,” you say. You’re not really sure what possesses you to say it. Obviously you’ll be there, that was definitely never in question. And what's more, you being there would've been a negative thing a week ago. Maybe it still is. It's the first thing that comes to mind, though. “I mean— like, I'll stick with you, you know. If you want.”

Karkat looks like he's on the verge of laughing but he doesn't make fun. “Thanks,” is all he says. He half sounds like he means it.

Something is definitely different between you now, since last night on the balcony. You woke up this morning thinking that maybe it had all been a dream. The memories had that hazy quality about them. But no— Karkat woke up yawning and stretching and when he spotted you beside him he broke into an honest, unbothered smile. The air has been cleared, at least somewhat. It's... a relief, in a way. It's freeing. You don’t feel like you have to pretend to hate him anymore.

And it would seem the feeling is mutual. Karkat is more relaxed around you. You hadn't realized he was tense before, on edge, but by the way he behaves now it's clear that he was. You know you’re partly to blame. You never exactly gave Karkat a reason to feel comfortable around you, but you feel like you’re slowly fixing that. Building a trust of sorts between the two of you, which isn't even something you realized you wanted until it was already happening, and it's certainly not something you’ve been doing consciously.

It's still hard for you to come to terms with the fact that you might've misjudged him so badly, and for so long. There was a time when you looked at Karkat and saw nothing but an asshole. Now you look at him and instead of obnoxiousness you see a self-defense mechanism. Instead of narcissism you see insecurity. And instead of seeing someone who should be torn down, all you see is someone worth protecting. Someone who just needs to be held a little.

“You're staring,” Karkat points out, breaking abruptly into your thoughts. He touches the corner of his own mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” you say, blinking. You look away awkwardly, clear your throat. “Sorry, just. Thinking.”

“Oh. About what?” he hesitates, then adds, “You looked troubled.”

“It’s nothing,” you wave him off.

Karkat nods. He's kind enough not to push.

* * *

The party is taking place in a club downtown owned by a music producer you've never heard of and never intend to work with— but Zahhak insists it's a good opportunity to make 'connections' and you’ve never really minded attending a party. Especially a party at a nice club with good booze and plenty of pretty people. Granted, you can't do anything more than look tonight. You’re not sure you’d even want to. It’s only been a few minutes since you got here but you’ve already deduced that Karkat’s the hottest person in the room.

Actually, the feeling is reminiscent of the first night you met. When you first laid eyes on him, Karkat took your breath away. Suddenly the pretty bartender seemed a lot less pretty. You know that while Karkat is obviously attractive he's not, objectively speaking, most people's idea of stunning. But something about him caught your attention that night, and now he's caught it again. You still couldn't say why.

Karkat looks around the crowded club. It's a very industrial, bare-bones sort of place but it's packed with fancy people. The lights sway and strobe in time with the music to an almost dizzying effect. He takes all this in and slowly exhales.

“You alright?” you wonder, leaning close to be heard over the (admittedly good) thumping base blaring through the speakers.

Karkat nods. His smile is somewhat forced but he doesn't seem on the verge of a breakdown. “Yeah. How about a drink?”

“How 'bout several?” you fire back.

You both wind up spending most of your evening at the bar. You promised Zahhak you’d be a social butterfly and network with some of these people but you promised Karkat you’d stick with him and that seems a lot more important, somehow.

Besides, Karkat is definitely a better conversation partner. That's not something you ever thought you’d say about him but the drunker Karkat gets, the hilariously angrier and rantier he is. It probably helps that you’re getting drunk right along with him.

You’re just starting on your fifth drink when someone sidles up to the bar next to Karkat and taps him on the shoulder. It's a guy— thin, greasy, with a punchable face. Something about him immediately puts you on edge. Could be the cocky grin as he greets Karkat with an overly familiar, “Kar, love, how've you been? I've missed you.”

Karkat, for his part, looks stricken. He blinks at the stranger like he can hardly believe he's real. “...Ampora?” he asks, voice wavering, just as the silence was starting to get awkward.

“In the flesh,” the guy replies with a flourish.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Karkat wonders.

“Here on business,” Ampora says in a tone of voice that suggests Karkat is too unimportant to be privy to the details. He waves a hand dismissively. “Boring stuff. Better question is, what are you doing here? You never were fond of New York City, if I recall.”

You don’t know who this guy is but he's clearly making Karkat uncomfortable and that's enough of a reason for you to hate him.

Karkat fidgets. “I’m, uh—”

“He’s with me,” you cut in. You place a steadying and hopefully reassuring hand on Karkat's shoulder. Ampora looks at you for the first time since he approached. As he does, his smirk turns into a sneer. “Karkat was nice enough to tag along and keep me company,” you add. “Weren't you, babe?”

“...Yeah,” Karkat agrees after a moment. “Dave and I—”

“Oh, you don't have to tell me,” Ampora interrupts. “I've seen the headlines, heard the reports. Everyone is just fascinated by the two of you.” He leans in closer to Karkat, once again ignoring you. “You look really good, Kar. You've still got my number, don't you? Give me a call when you get bored.”

You both watch him walk away. He crosses the room and disappears into the crowd. “Fuck,” Karkat swears vehemently under his breath.

“He was nice,” you deadpan.

Karkat scowls morosely down at his drink. “He's a douche. Fuck that guy.” He glances back over his shoulder at where Ampora had gone and shudders, like just being in the same room with him is discomforting.

They've clearly got a past. “Wanna talk about it?” you ask, gently.

Karkat shakes his head mutely in response.

You leave it be. You’re curious, of course, but better to let it lie for now probably. You try a different question. “Wanna get outta here?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Get your mind outta the gutter, Karkat, christ. I ain’t that drunk. Just sick of this place.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. He sounds skeptical but there's a hint of hope in his tone.

You really should stay. You should talk to some people, make a proper appearance. But, “Yeah. We can't leave out the front, though. Paparazzi'd be all over us for skipping out early.”

“So we sneak out the back,” Karkat declares.

You look out at the expansive, unavoidable crowd and sigh. “They're all gonna think we snuck out for a beejer, man.”

Karkat shrugs like he doesn't care. He tosses back the last of his drink, grabs you by the wrist, and leads the way to the exit. He casts a few wary glances in Ampora’s direction and when you’re finally outside, standing in an alley between the club and a closed shop, he lets out a relieved breath. You don’t mention it, instead wordlessly offer a cigarette, which he takes with a grateful nod of his head.

You walk most of the way back to the hotel, don't talk much. Karkat seems lost in thought. But he livens up some once you’ve arrived. You expect him to go straight back to writing but he doesn't. Instead, he grabs you both another drink, settles next to you on the loveseat to watch TV, and you both take the piss out of a low-budget Lifetime action movie for about an hour. Maybe it's some combination of alcohol and sleepiness but after a while of you cracking dumb jokes just to make him laugh he gets giggly and laidback, his run-in with Ampora evidently forgotten.

He's adorable like this. You like to think this isn't a side of him everyone gets to see.

“Karkat,” you say, out of the blue. You’re maybe a little drunk. “Kat...”

Karkat looks over at you, smiling, eyes bright and trusting, like there isn't three years of antagonism lying between you. “Yeah, Dave?”

His voice is so pretty. The way he says your name is so pretty. You could fall asleep to the sound of his voice. You’d probably have sweet dreams.

You kiss him with no preamble. Karkat makes a noise of surprise but he settles into it quick enough, kisses back, his hands coming up to cup your face. His lips are so fucking soft, so perfect, and when he smiles into the kiss you can't help but smile as well.

You’re the one who breaks the kiss, as much as you’d rather not. “That should do it,” you say, halfway out of breath.

Karkat looks dazed. His eyes flick from your lips to your shades and back again. “What?”

You grin, hold up your phone. “I'd say that's Instagram worthy, wouldn't you?”

Karkat blinks at you, then at the picture displayed on your phone. “Oh. Right,” he says dumbly. “Instagram. Sure.”

You lower the phone, still grinning. “You wanted to kiss me.”

A blush starts at the tips of Karkat's ears and spreads to his cheeks. “What? No, fuck, it was— _you were taking a picture_.”

“But you didn't know that.”

He scoffs. “Shut up. It was the heat of the fucking moment.”

“So if I did it again...” you say carefully.

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he mutters. He goes to get up, to put distance between you, but you take hold of his wrist, stilling him. You hold it loosely. He could break your grip if he wanted.

“Don't run away, dude. You don't gotta go anywhere.”

Karkat sits back down. He eyes you, wary. That hadn't been your intention, to make him suspicious.

“I’m never gonna live that down, am I?” he grumbles, opting to keep things light.

“Never.”

When you post the photo on Instagram you caption it with a cheesy ‘ _yours_ ’ and a bunch of sparkly heart emojis. It's not true. You maybe kinda want it to be.

* * *

You’re having breakfast the next morning when Karkat brings it up.

He's been looking distant, conflicted, so you ask, “What's up, Vantas? Hungover?”

Karkat looks up like he's startled to be addressed. “No,” he says, voice still with that morning quality. You’ve only just woken up. You didn't even bother to put on real pants to go down to the hotel cafe for breakfast. “No, I'm just thinking.”

“’bout what?”

You expect him to say something about his book or a movie or some other seemingly random thing, like he usually does. Instead he says, eyes fixed firmly on his plate, “Last night.”

“...Ampora?” you ask hopefully.

Karkat looks tempted to roll his eyes at the very mention of the name. “No, Dave, don't play dumb.”

“Oh. You mean the, uh... the other thing.”

“Yeah. Specifically the bit where you asked about doing it again.”

You gesture vaguely with your fork. “You said it was, like, the heat of the moment and stuff, right? And it was just a lil kiss, ain’t that deep, man.”

“So you don't wanna do it again?”

You want to. You very much want to. You wanna be able to kiss Karkat whenever you please. It's so easy to imagine, too. The two of you, together.

You can't actually bring yourself to say it outright. Instead, you shrug, give another vague gesture and leave the meaning for Karkat to interpret. Evidently he interprets it as a negative because he says, “Good, then. It'd just complicate things, wouldn't it? Best if we keep it professional.”

The worst part is that he sounds so closed off. Like he’s perfectly fine with it, like it doesn’t even bother him. And that stings. It had never occurred to you that your attraction would be one-sided. You’d thought you and Karkat were on the same page.

You open your mouth, on the verge of contradicting him, but what comes out instead is, “Yeah. Professional.”

Because he’s right, you know he’s right. It’d just complicate things. And what's more, you aren’t sure you wanna hear Karkat's rejection spelled out any clearer.

“Glad you agree,” he says. He still won’t look at you.

You eat the rest of your breakfast in silence. For the first time in a while, it's awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no !


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *uses cronus as a plot device*

Karkat never comes to bed. He's at his laptop typing when you doze off, and he's asleep at his makeshift desk when you wake up, blanket draped over his shoulders and head resting uncomfortably on the tabletop, laptop still open beside him. It probably wasn't intentional. Or so you tell yourself. Yeah, things have been pretty weird since you kissed him but would he really go so far as to avoid sleeping in the same bed?

You’re still blinking sleepily at Karkat's huddled form, trying to decide whether or not you should wake him, when your phone rings. You reach out blindly toward the bedside table until your hand connects with it, stifling a yawn as you answer, “Sup?”

There's a pause, then, “Karkat, beta?”

“What?” you say, pulling the phone away from your ear and— it's not your phone. It's Karkat's phone. The caller ID says ‘BABA’. You sit up, abruptly nervous. “Oh, f— hi, sorry, Mr. Vantas,” you stammer. “Karkat’s still asleep—”

Karkat's dad cuts you off with a gasp. “You must be Dave!” he realizes, sounding entirely too excited about it.

“Uh, yeah...” you admit. You glance at Karkat, half-hoping he'll wake up and rescue you, half-hoping he won't so you can avoid the embarrassment.

“Karkat has told me so much about you,” he informs you, earnestly. “You know, I've seen you both all over the papers, on the TV. My son looks so happy. I hope you're treating him right?”

“Trying,” you say, sheepish.

He laughs, a warm little chuckle, a delighted sound. “I've so badly wanted to meet you, Mr. Strider. I always knew there was something... I mean, the way Karkat went on about you, like he hated you, I can't say I saw this coming. But it was like pulling pigtails on the playground, I suppose.”

“...Something like that, yeah,” you agree, at a loss for what else to say. You’re sort of wishing you had some experience to fall back on here but all those years of avoiding lasting relationships has left you grasping at straws when it comes to talking to the father of your boyfriend. Supposed boyfriend. Fake boyfriend. Whatever.

“Well, the two of you simply must find some time to come visit us up here in Seattle. Soon. Alright, Dave?”

You recall the nice little daydream you’d had about meeting Karkat's folks. That daydream seems more unlikely to occur now than ever. You have to swallow past the lump in your throat as you falsely assure him, “’course, Mr. Vantas. I'd love to.”

“Tell Karkat I called, would you?”

“Sure.”

“Pleasure speaking to you, Mr. Strider.”

“You too,” you say, just as he hangs up.

You stare down at the phone in your hand as the call disconnects. What a way to start the day.

“I hope he didn't say anything too embarrassing,” Karkat says, voice heavy with sleep. He sits up slowly, stretching his arms over his head with a pained grimace.

“Didn't realize you were awake.”

“'m not,” Karkat grumbles. He clutches at the blanket round his shoulders to keep it in place, crosses the room, and sort of falls into bed. Head on his pillow, he closes his eyes. “Why'd you let me do that?”

“Huh?”

“Fall asleep over there.”

“I thought... maybe you wanted to be over there…?”

Karkat doesn't answer. You think maybe he's fallen asleep again. You go to get up, only to be stopped by Karkat clutching at the fabric of your t-shirt. He blinks up at you. “Stay here,” he sleepily demands. “It's too fucking early.”

You don’t bother arguing. You don’t even wanna argue. Karkat wants you to stay, so you stay.

* * *

It turns out that 'keeping it professional' is pretty fucking difficult now that you’ve realized Karkat isn't a total windbag. You’re less conflicted and that means everything you found hot about Karkat before but pushed aside in the name of hating him has resurfaced with a vengeance. You catch yourself staring more than once, at his eyes, at his lips, at his hands, at his fucking baller ass. At whatever is readily available to be drooled over, really. You still feel bad about it, of course, but for different reasons. Now, instead of feeling guilty for compromising your principles, being hopelessly attracted to Karkat makes you feel guilty because he’s placed himself firmly off limits.

It's the worst at night, though. Sharing a bed with him makes things difficult, not least of all because Karkat really is a cuddler. He usually starts the night off on his side of the bed, arms and legs kept to himself, but you’ll wake up hours later and have him draped over you or curled into you or clutching you close. Like in his sleep he sought you out, craved closeness, and that just leads you to wondering why you’d been so blatantly shut down. Karkat clearly isn't repulsed by you.

Still, you play by the rules. During the rest of your four days in New York the awkwardness dissipates somewhat. You’re getting along fine. Your dynamic seems to have settled into playful teasing, rather than the mean jibes you’d throw at each other before, and real arguments are at a minimum.

Then Karkat fucks it up.

You fly back to LA on a Thursday. Friday morning you wake up before Karkat— or so you assume, because his door is still shut and there's no sign he's been rooting about in the kitchen yet. Sleeping without him had been weird. Easier, in a way. Less tempting. But still unpleasant. You’re maybe a bit of a cuddler yourself, it turns out, and you miss the contact. But without a proper excuse you hadn't dared invite him over to sleep with you again.

You’re making coffee when the text from Zahhak comes in. It reads simply, ‘twitter _’_.

With a strange feeling in your gut, you open twitter on your phone. You check the trends first but they give little away. The only thing of note is that _#davekat_ is trending again. The very first tweet you see when you click it is mostly keysmashing and a series of angry emojis but the second is a little more enlightening.

 _why would karkat do this to poor dave,_ it says.

That strange feeling turns into full-on butterflies now. You keep scrolling until you find a link, click it with some trepidation. As you read the article, as you look at the pictures attached to it, you start to feel sick.

You’re still staring blankly at a grainy picture of Karkat and Ampora embracing when Karkat wanders into the kitchen and utters a sleepy, “Good morning.”

You’re shaking. “Karkat,” you say. That's all you say. It's enough to tip him off that something is the matter.

“What's wrong?” he asks, immediately tense. When you don’t answer right away he rounds the counter to place a comforting hand on your arm. “Dave?”

“Tell me this isn't recent.”

Brow furrowed, he glances at the phone, then drops his hand from your arm. He takes two steps back, unconsciously putting distance between you. “God, it's— it wasn’t—” He cuts off his own stammering to take a deep breath. “It's not what it looks like, Dave, I fucking promise.”

“When?”

“Cronus and me, we aren't—”

“Just answer the fucking question, Vantas.”

Karkat folds his arms over his chest, a defensive posture. He hesitates, then admits, “Wednesday.”

“Fuck,” you breathe. It was probably too much to hope for, that these pictures might be old. You still feel unspeakably disappointed anyway. “Wednesday? When on Wednesday? When I was doing that stupid photoshoot?”

Karkat's embarrassingly lowered gaze is enough confirmation.

“You said you'd be staying in,” you snap. “What the fuck, man? You knew the paps would be on you like hyenas. You had to know—” you interrupt yourself with a sharp, humorless laugh. “Is that it, Karkat? You did it on purpose? Still tryna ruin me?”

You regret the implication almost as soon as it's left your mouth but your anger overrides your desire to take it back. You’re mad, and hurt, and a part of you wants Karkat to hurt, too. Evidently it works. He looks like you may as well have slapped him. “What? Don't you dare do that, Dave, you know I wouldn't.”

“Do I?” You glance at your phone again. “The whole fucking world thinks you've cheated on me and I've been saying all that lovey-dovey soulmate shit about you on TV. God, I look like a fucking _idiot_ —”

“That's what you're so fucking worried about?”

You ignore him. “I trusted you, dude. First mistake, I guess. Should've known you'd screw me over first chance you got.”

Karkat has gone stiff as a board. His glare is impressive. It looks like he has to swallow a thousand angry retorts before he manages a somewhat calm response. “Would you just look at the fucking photos? We're not even up to anything. It wasn’t a fucking date.”

“Then what was it? ’cause it sure as hell looks like a date.”

Again, you can practically see Karkat steeling himself, swallowing his own anger. “Cronus is my ex. He's _the_ ex. When he called me I thought... Well, it doesn't fucking matter what I thought. Whatever it was, I was wrong. He's not changed and he never will.” Karkat inches forward. He takes the phone from your hand to see the picture for himself. He only glances, though, and then, with a disgusted look, sets the phone aside. “What he put me through... I'd never go back to him. But when he called I couldn't just ignore it. I felt like I had to see him. To get some closure.” Karkat rolls his eyes at himself. “You're right about one thing. It was a fucking stupid thing to do, and I'm sorry.”

In the face of his apology and refusal to blow up at you, your own anger is hard to sustain. You scrub a hand through your hair, frustrated. “Alright, it wasn’t a date— but it still looks like one. You two are awfully chummy.”

“He grabbed me as I was leaving. I pushed him off straight away, but of course they don't fucking show that part, do they?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Hell no. Which means I've still gotta convince the press we're as loving a couple as they think we are.”

Karkat bites his lip. He looks up at you from under his lashes, hesitant. “You don't really think I'd do something like that to you on purpose, do you?”

You consider it, gaze flicking over Karkat's face, taking in his earnest, worried expression. If he had asked you a couple months ago you’d have said yes in a heartbeat.

“No,” you admit, leaning heavily against the counter with a sigh. “Nah, Karkat, I know you wouldn't. I shouldn't have said that.”

“I’m not gonna see him again,” Karkat gently assures you. “Or anyone. Not while we're...”

Neither of you rush to finish the sentence, wouldn't know how to. An uneasy silence falls over you. Karkat's gaze drops to his own feet. He winds up breaking the silence with, “I, er. Came out for him. For Ampora. He told me if I didn't he'd break things off. Then I found out he was fucking cheating on me the whole time.” His laugh is bitter. “I thought I was in love with him, you know? Fucking stupid.”

As if you needed even more of a reason to hate Ampora. Now you’re wishing you’d decked him in the nose when you had the chance. “Why're you telling me this?”

Karkat shrugs. He's gone pink in the cheeks and he won't look at you. “No one else knows. That he cheated on me, I mean. I just thought— I owed you that. As a sign of, like. Trust or something. And, um. I thought it might, like, explain things a little. See, we only broke up about a month before you and me met and I think I may have been a bit... Well, I may have taken it out on you a little that night. I didn't even wanna go but Terezi pressured me into it and as soon as I laid eyes on you I was thinking, ‘oh, shit, another pretty face, he's probably just gonna fuck me over again—’”

There are definitely other, more important things in his rambling to make note of but you have to ask, “Pretty?”

Karkat's cheeks go a shade darker. “Oh, shut the fuck up, you know what I meant.”

You grin. “First the kiss and now you've gone and called me pretty. Careful, Vantas, or I just might start thinking you like me.”

Karkat rolls his eyes but he almost looks relieved at the teasing. Maybe because it's familiar, maybe because it's a sign that you aren’t upset with him anymore. “You really aren't going to let me live that down, are you?”

That's your cue to respond with something witty and lighthearted but instead your mouth moves without your permission and what comes out is, “I haven't stopped thinking about it.”

You both freeze after you’ve said it. Your brain immediately starts trying to come up with ways to spin it into a joke or take it back or make it seem like you were talking about anything but that kiss— but the look on Karkat's face gives you pause. It's part surprised, part hopeful, part wondering.

He says, “Me neither.”

It's not much to go on, but it's... something. It's a far cry from his strained insistence that you keep things professional.

“Well,” you say after a moment. “I can see why. I'm fucking fantastic.”

Karkat rolls his eyes but there's a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Christ, remind me never to compliment you lest your ego inflate so much it fucking carries you away.”

You’ve probably never wanted to kiss someone so much in your life. It’s funny, Karkat just insulted you, and you were just arguing, but all you wanna do is wrap him up in your arms and kiss him breathless. Maybe it's the smile that does it. Karkat's smile is stupidly cute and, right now, it looks almost fond. Sad to think that, had you not gone through with this little PR scam, you might never have had that smile directed at you.

You fight the urge to draw him closer and smooch him to within an inch of his life. Instead, you gesture toward the balcony. “Forget the coffee. Wanna smoke instead?”

He acquiesces with a grin. Weirdly enough things seem less strained between you after your argument. You talk freely and laugh openly. It's... nice. It's something you’re afraid you could get used to.

Zahhak calls you about ten times, but you ignore him. You’ll deal with the scandal later.


End file.
